


Static Noise

by fencecollapsed



Series: Half-Infected Paul [4]
Category: The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals - Team StarKid
Genre: Angst, Blood, Catharsis, Crying, Emotional Constipation, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Nosebleed, Post-Apotheosis (The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals), Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23541568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencecollapsed/pseuds/fencecollapsed
Summary: Paul had always struggled with processing strong feelings, namely the negative ones, but since the infection rather than just feeling a little slower than average on reaction, he felt completely backed up.
Relationships: Paul Matthews/Emma Perkins
Series: Half-Infected Paul [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718695
Comments: 9
Kudos: 124





	Static Noise

**Author's Note:**

> *slaps the roof of this fic* This baby can fit so much self projection-

Some days were good. Days when the music was quiet - pleasant, even, gentle bells and strings that put a bounce in Paul's step. Those days the void inside of him felt small, and his skin felt almost warm. Those days he felt as close to alive as he could. Those days smiling didn't make his face ache. Those days, if they were especially good, he might even  _ choose  _ to sing.

Some days were bad. Days when drums pounded in Paul's head, the endless symphony swirled in a chaotic cacophony that made his ears bleed, and the emptiness ate away at him, on the worst days making him almost long for the Hive to just come back and take him. Those days Paul stayed inside. Those days he pounded down full pots of black coffee. Those days he didn't speak.

Some days were in-between, but some days in between the in-between, those days were static. In practice they played out the same. Typical, fine days, the odd note he couldn't hold back, a few stray lyrics here and there, nothing he couldn't handle. Paul's new average, in a sense. But the difference was that on in-between days, Paul  _ felt  _ that new average.

On static days he felt nothing.

\--

"Paul, you're bleeding again." Emma patted his chest, sitting up out of his arms.

Paul swiped a thumb under his nose. "Shit, I'll be back."

He got up from his place on the sofa, his hands cupped over his face.

"Do you want help?" Emma started to stand, too.

Blue was already soaking through Paul's fingers and coating his chin. He shook his head and walked to the bathroom. Pouring from both nostrils, blood coated the front of his face dripped down his neck, staining his shirt and shining on his teeth. He liked that shirt, too. 

He watched his own bright blue eyes dull to a softer glow in the mirror. The people in Golden always seemed a little mesmerized by his eyes. Shrunken pupils made the electric blue even more striking, and when you got close you could make out swirling patterns of richer blue etched and bleeding into his marbled irises. Paul didn't like them much. People in Golden thought they were strangely charming.

He didn't think much looking at them now. He just stared at his own reflection, the bleeding beginning to cease, leaving him looking like he'd been punched in the face by a freight train. His bloody hands moved, fingers tingling with static, and unbuttoned his shirt. Mindless. He shouldered it off and left it crumpled on the floor, and now the scars were out. Chest, shoulders, arms, palms, ravaged by fire, aglow with spores. Spots on his face and neck, too, when he didn't cover them with makeup, which he almost always did. He drew his hand along a deeper one at his shoulder blade, smearing his skin with blood.

Paul thought things about his eyes, his scars, his blood. He had plenty of thoughts, and he'd share them if asked. He found it hard to feel things about them, though. He should, he figured, but he didn't, really. Embarrassment, anxiety, sure, those were his staples, but anything more complex, anything more warranted, that was where he drew a blank. A blank slate, staring at his shirtless, scarred, bloody self, waiting for a strong feeling to hit.

Paul had always struggled with processing strong feelings, namely the negative ones, but since the infection rather than just feeling a little slower than average on reaction, he felt completely backed up. Like he was made of pipes with a big glowing blue rock lodged somewhere inside, clogging it shut so the system couldn't work properly. Sometimes it almost seemed like it could - when he watched an old favorite movie or tended to his and Emma's garden on a sunny day, and of course God help him when that beloved feisty girl of his did  _ anything _ to make his heart beat near its living pace again - but once that settled and the opportunity rose to feel anything less than joyful, the clog was back.

The more he stared at himself the more he sensed it. His chest felt tight, something welled in his throat. A cold sting pricked his eyes and he sniffed, unable and unwilling to stop the sudden tears leaking from his eyes. Still the static numbed him - his body wouldn't even grant him the catharsis of crying.

For once - a fucking miracle, to be frank - Paul was grateful for the music swelling in his ears. He could sing to this, he could get some kind of relief. He shut his eyes and let the lyrics tumble from his lips. His voice was ever smooth and on pitch in spite of his tears, because God forbid a man of the Hive ever encounter a hindrance in performance.

_ "I need a human voice. Something that I can hold onto, in all this static noise. I need someone to break on through." _

He repeated the chorus a few times, allowing his volume to grow as the score dictated, feeling his tears cascade in an endless flow.

The footsteps approaching the bathroom were rapid and the song faded out accordingly.

"Paul?" Emma pounded on the door. "I can hear you, are you okay? I'm coming in."

What a sight Paul was to behold. Bare chest smeared with blood, face a mess of tears, eyes wide but hardly expressive.

"Jesus Christ, Paul." Emma approached him slowly and took his hands. "Shit, babe, I've had some severe breakdowns in my life, but this really takes the fucking cake."

"I-I don't…" Ah, his speaking voice was allowed to be disastrous, great. "I don't f- _ feel  _ like I'm breaking down."

"Shh."

Emma moved her hands to hold his face, wiping at his tears with her thumb. She drifted her arms around his neck and pulled him into an embrace, threading her fingers into his dark hair softly, a sensation she knew calmed him. The moment he settled in her arms, the dam broke. The rock unlodged and the pipes flooded. 

Paul choked. He sobbed. His legs buckled beneath him and Emma eased them both onto the bathroom floor, collecting her poor, ever blue-stained man in her lap. His sobs were visceral, which surprised Emma. She'd expected Paul to be a soft crier, though she'd also expected to see him cry at least once before now. Hell, he'd seen her cry dozens of times, after nightmares and flashbacks, once when a song at the mall sounded a little too similar to one of the death jams they'd been threatened with. Though Paul experienced anxiety too, that Emma helped with of course, he'd never cried.

New territory, that was fine. Just a chance for Emma to step the fuck up and show Paul that she loved him as much as he loved her.

"Shh, shh… It's okay, Paul." She murmured, stroking his hair. He liked that word - okay. It soothed him when he was anxious, as did certain touches, so Emma would rely on it to soothe him now. "You're okay. I've got you. Just breathe, okay?"

Paul clung to her waist, his legs sprawled out on the bathroom tile, his head in her lap. He cried like he'd forgotten how to, like he hadn't in years. He cried like it was painful.

"Shh, hon. I've got you." She swayed him to a steady rhythm. "What was it you said, you need a human voice? Well I'm right here, okay? And I'm not going anywhere. You can hold onto me."

_ "Emmaaa," _

She hugged him tighter. "Yeah, Paul, I'm right here."

She held him and swayed him and combed his hair softly until he was all cried out. He lay in her arms, exhausted, his system emptied once again. Emma figured it would be a few hours before she heard his voice again.

"Feel like talking, babe?" She asked gently, just to be sure.

Paul shook his head, not removing it from its place in her lap.

"That's okay. We can just go to bed."

Paul looked up at her, his nose scrunched with his furrowed brows and still smeared with dried blood. Emma made a little sound of self correction, laughing a bit at herself.

"Yeah, you'd better clean up first."

\--

When Paul was finished cleaning up and changed into a pair of nice, fresh silk pajamas, Emma was waiting for him in bed with her arms open, dressed down just as cozy in a soft, smooth dark green robe. He loved that robe both for its texture and how cute and cuddly Emma looked in it, and she knew that. He scrambled to collect her in his arms, nuzzling his cheek against her soft shoulders. Emma turned to wrap her arms around him as well, laying them both down in bed. She kissed his cheek lightly.

"I'm always right here, Paul. Just like you are for me. You know that, right?"

He nodded with a hum, and reciprocated her kiss.

"Good. I love you."

Paul shut his eyes, still not speaking, but he hummed a very familiar three-note tune and Emma received the message.

**Author's Note:**

> I used song lyrics from Human Voice from the movie Anna And the Apocalypse because I watched it tonight and it hit different man  
> Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
